Love Over Scottland

Author's Note: This  piece is a response to the novel Love Over Scotland. I decided to work on a possible area of weakness: responding to a timed prompt. I was given a prompt and an hour to respond. I feel as though I did much better than I believed I would. It was not as challenging as I thought it would be, and I actually felt less stressed because I knew that I had to just get my thoughts down and not over think anything. Overall, it was an extremely beneficial experience and strengthened my writing.

Even very early on into the novel Love Over Scotland, the reader is able to define how the various characters interact with one another. Naturally, we receive a first impression of the character usually because of the way they interact with others. We perceive their spot they will hold in the novel and commonly decide within the first few seconds of reading about the character if we like them or not. Our opinions could be altered at a moments notice as the result of a mere word the author decided to place in the character's dialogue, or possibly just a simple description of their body language. In any case, studying the interactions between characters is an act we most often do subconsciously. Even so, when we unravel these thoughts and opinions we have created, we are able to better develop a clear image of how the characters interact which assist us in understanding the theme of the novel as a whole.

"'Writers can make mistakes like anybody else," said Antonia, rather peevishly. "We're human, you know." She looked at Angus, as if expecting a refutation, though none came." At particular moments of dialogue like this, we can see the diversity between characters. In this case, it is obvious that Antonia is the type of person to rebuttal -- to speak her mind completely whether the opportunity presents itself, or whether she forces it too. She enjoys being challenged, however only slightly; a good argument here and there gives her fuel, as long as she is clearly the one in control. Provocative statements are often spilling out of her mouth, and in her mind, she is never wrong. On the other hand, Angus, a polite portrait painter and poet, is quite the contrary.

Angus Lordie is able to see right through everyone he encounters. He can strip someone bare by a simple opportunity to study their outward appearance for just a moment. Angus is able to point out and understand what a person is all about without exchanging even a sliver of dialogue.

They had barely introduced themselves, and yet he was confident as to her social background, her interests, and her availability … a white linen blouse (only those with time on their hands to iron could wear linen) … the navy-blue jacket indicated an attachment to the existing order, or even to an order which no longer existed, while the brooch announced that this was a person who had lived in the country, or at least one who knew what the country was all about ... Antonia would thus be a blue stocking, a woman of intellectual interest and marked views.

With only less than a page of writing, the author is able to successfully represent these characters through their thoughts, their dialogue, and their body language. Almost instantly, the reader concludes Angus' observant, affable, and rather quiet personality, followed by the determination of Antonia's rather bold, fearful, and intellectual persona. This is made even more obvious throughout their interactions with one another. A successful writer can accomplish this goal; a successful writer will hint at the theme through spurts of provocative dialogue between characters which is precisely what is exemplified throughout  Love Over Scotland.

Stream of Consciousness: Shimmer

Author's Note: I wrote this stream to get me into the writing mood, and so I could keep up the consistency and frequency of writing creatively without really thinking to analytically about it. I wanted to create a strong yet simple visual with lots of symbolism. I wanted the symbolism to be rather hidden though, and leave for room for it to be interpreted differently. I feel as though the images represented in this stream represent certain situations or people that are becoming sort of prominent in my life at the moment. 

Wet stones shimmer on the pavement, piled high, mounted on top of each other. Each stone attempts to suppress the others value -- shade their reflection -- but it simply cannot be done. One small, although shimmering, stone is not as beautiful as hundreds, thousands of light-capturing jewels. And when they all try to outweigh the next, their shimmer does not shine as bright; it is like setting your sight upon something utterly ordinary. A mere image of nature. But together, after a light rain perhaps, the reflection is magnificent and cannot be ignored. The smooth grey surfaces possess  a  nearly metallic sheen, stunning in contrast to the dew covered grass. And they remain there, still, in lovely harmony, making each other more beautiful as if it burdens no work at all. The sun looks on from above, admiring its work, gazing at its beauty having been created by itself. The stones, the grass -- the glistening water -- is all aware of the Sun and its work. Not one piece in this show is forgotten, or rather forgotten the other. Because put together, each image is like an instrument, creating an extraordinary piece of music, a symphony, for all to enjoy and to hear. In hopes of emulating this day again, and continuing the music the next day, the Sun, stones, grass, and water quite, leaving the moon to paint the night.

Beyond Conventions

Author's Note: This piece is my response to the short story Teddy. This story was a bit of a process to truly explore and understand. There was tons of symbolism within Teddy, and I was determined to uncover most all of it in order to compose a meaningful response. Once I had gathered all my thoughts and made some detailed pre-writing notes, I realized that my focus was way too broad. After a few attempts at the actual composition of my response, I realized, with some guidance, that I needed to narrow the scope of my response. Once that was completed, it was a bit easier for me to write. However, I did have to remind myself more than once that it takes time to put out a worth while response. I realized that covering one very high-level, in depth topic was clearly worth more than trying to cram lots of different ideas. My goal was to create a response that made the reader really think about and study Teddy's personality, and realize that there is so much we can learn from a mere ten year old character within this short story.

"Nicholson took out his cigarettes again, but without taking his eyes off Teddy. "How does one get out of the finite dimensions?" he asked, and gave a short laugh. "I mean, to begin very basically, a block of wood is a block of wood, for example. It has length, width --"" (189) As perplexing as Nicholson's question may be, to Teddy, the answer is quite simple; one must rid of logic. Too often, we answer with logic, when logic is the first thing that must be forgotten when escaping the finite dimensions. One must think outside of and beyond conventions -- erase labels and forget what we think to be facts. Teddy says life is a gift horse in his opinion, and that it is. We must not take our existence for granted and make use of our time on earth by looking beyond the finite dimensions.

Teddy makes use of his time on earth with every word he speaks, with every thought he thinks, and with every action he performs. Literally, he is constantly sticking his head out of the portal and scanning the sea rather than emerging himself in a contained swimming pool. When he is forced to respond to the simplistic ideals of such overly simplified people, he does it in such a way that perplexes them -- makes them question their thoughts all together.

"It hasn't. That's where you're wrong," Teddy said. "Everybody just thinks things keep stopping off somewhere. They don't …" He … took out an eyesore of a handkerchief -- a gray, wadded entity -- and blew his nose. "The reason things seem to stop off somewhere is because that's the only way most people know how to look at things … But that doesn't mean they do."

How does one get to this point? How does one begin to have the mental capacity to explore the world in such a way that is so rare, if existent at all, in today's society? The complexity of how Teddy's mind works bewilders everyone around him; he is a precise example of thinking outside of our labels. Outwardly, Teddy is a mere ten year old boy. However, inversely, his mind is greater than that of a college professor. The notion that age is a convention in itself is thoroughly recognized within the short story and represented by the character of Teddy.

If we never take time to look at things in a contradistinct way, we will always have a singular, narrow view of the world and its inhabitants. We must stress the importance of being aware -- exercising our minds to the fullest in order to live to the fullest. We must empty our thoughts and notions and then conceive of everything  around us adversely. For if we live so lazily, so simplistic yet horribly complicated at the same time, we will lead utterly mundane lives.

"Colors are only names. I mean if you tell them the grass is green, it makes them start expecting the grass to look a certain way--your way--instead of some other way that may be just as good, and may be much better . . . I don't know. I'd just make them vomit up every bit of the apple their parents and everybody made them take a bite out of."

And maybe Teddy is precisely correct. Maybe it is time for us to vomit up every bit of conventions we obtain, and leave our minds hungry and eager to search for the pieces of life that matter.

Chilled

Author's Note: This poem is a piece of poetry that I wrote simply as a response to my dire need, my absolute desire, to produce some sort of writing. I was looking to create something artistic, something that wasn't particularly stressful. I've been faced with a lot of structure lately, and I needed to break away from that. I wasn't concerned about where the piece was to go, and as I continued, I realized that I knew precisely what it was about. I believe this piece is a bit of a reflection of how I feel right now. Because the piece is so new and raw as of now, I know that I will most likely discover another meaning, perhaps something entirely different, after I just give it some time. That is a common thread throughout all of my poetry, and it is an interesting and prominent process to me -- to look back and study your subconscious. 

White lips, pale

Face; Soft skin,

Covered in snow flakes

Eyes like marbles, glossed

Over with ice

Closed now,

Shut, and

Closed now

Feet, slowing sinking,

Entrenched in the beautiful

White snow, still

As white as the skin

Of the girl, sinking

Lashes faced down,

And pointing towards

The ground

Blanketed with delicate drops

Of glacial water,

Like thin blades of grass

Covered in dew --

An early spring morning

Held captive in the winter,

Slowly freezing, slowly

Frosting over

The world, an ice rink

Where she slips and slides …

The girl breaths out a

Cloud of smoke,

Swallowed by the sky

Gone

Stream of Consciousness: Family

Author's Note: This is a simple stream of consciousness that I composed. I struggled with this one, most likely because I had just come from a break, and I sort of needed to get back in the groove. It was hard for me to not stop, think, and start again with this piece, which is not something a stream of consciousness is designed for. Still, I enjoy the metaphor that I included in this piece and I am pleased with the overall concept.

 

Tough knowing the absolute depth of how much we love them -- the people we love. Immeasurable, immensely untouchable. Yet do we show this love that is forever beating, so strongly, with such passion, in our hearts? So easy, it is, to take this love, these people we love, for granted. The most simple actions or tasks become thousands of pounds strapped upon our back, as we make no attempt to forge ahead. The wind whips at our face, warning us, but we stay sitting, resting at the bottom of the mountain in the storm. Isn't our love, this love that is so strong and immeasurable, and immensely untouchable, supposed to aid us on what should be a weightless, non-burdened journey to the peak of the mountain? Perhaps it should. Perhaps this is how it should be. Perhaps we should take our own selfish desires out of the equation and just help -- be there for one another. Because after all, isn't this what family is for each other? Perhaps it should be.  

The Phoenix

Author's Note: This piece is my summative response to Fahrenheit 451. The main focus of this essay was elaborating on the notion that what is in one's heart and mind is much more powerful than what can be written down on paper, on the notion of extinguishing this destructive fire that many jump into for safety. I wanted to explain Montag's decision to stop burning and start preserving. I had many thoughts and lots of points to get across in this piece, accompanied by a great deal of text evidence I wanted to include. This made the organizational aspect somewhat difficult, and I found myself running with a thought and stringing it out into lengthy sentences and paragraphs. I began to realize that this was okay as long as I was being clear with my audience and defining my terms. After processing so many thoughts from within this essay for a little while, I could finally write my conclusion and the composition came quite naturally and quickly. I am content with the final result of this piece and eager for feedback.

"After a long time of floating on the land and a short time of floating in the river he knew why he must never burn again in his life." (p 140-141) While drifting along a river, just barely escaping all hell and gliding  on a dream, a  dream that there may be yet a sliver of hope, Montag realizes that burning is far too redundant.  In this dreary world where everything is turned to ashes, it becomes prevalent that everything is already burning out; there is too much burning and not enough saving, recording, learning, living. With all things in Montag's life becoming extinguished, he knows he mustn't contribute to the destruction anymore, but rather preserve what is within ones heart. For what is within ones heart cannot be erased, cannot be dismantled, cannot be diminished, and is far more powerful than words on paper.

During Montag's time away from the city, away from the people who burn, who watch people burn things and things that burn, and the ones who accept burning, he finds peace inside himself. A singular thought running through his mind provides sudden clarity for him that is enlightening.

…the river was mild and leisurely, going away from the people who ate shadows for breakfast and steam for lunch and vapors for supper. The river was very real; it held him comfortably and gave him the time at least, the leisure, to consider this month, this year, and a lifetime of years … His thoughts stopped rushing with his blood. (p 140)

While he lies on the surface of the body of water, he starts to live outside of time itself. Montag finds that the truth lies only within you, and when it is discovered, you must live it. You must withstand the criticism that leaps from the mouths of careful people. You must disassemble your previous self who only did what others asked and only cared for what other cared for -- your previous self who was so empty, filled with nothingness, nothing that was yours or belonged to you. One must jump out of the fire that everyone seems to find such comfort in, the mass fire where everyone does everything that has already been done without a single question or thought. "One of them had to stop burning. The sun wouldn’t, certainly." (p 140) Eventually, the fire, the simultaneous destructing and feeding force, must burn out. People cannot remain living and breathing in smoke, for no clarity can be found there. Montag comes to the realization that the truth is real, what is inside you is real, and the only thing that matters. Finally, Montag makes the conscious decision to abandon the people who burn -- to become a builder rather than a destroyer.

As this dystopia unfolds, it becomes definite that somewhere the saving and keeping must begin, and be put in books, in people's heads, so long as it remains safe from men with matches.

The sun burnt everyday. It burnt Time. The world rushed in a circle and turned on its axis and time was busy burning the years and the people anyway, without any help from him. So if he burnt things with the fireman and the sun burnt Time, that meant that everything burnt! (p 140)

 Eventually all the burning, the destruction of cities, homes, and people becomes unimportant to those who preserve, to those who have preserved all they need in their heart, and mind, for years.  The mass burning of the world becomes nothing but a beautiful, peaceful reincarnation -- something new, something wonderful, something reborn: hope. The notion that we can all simply start over and extinguish the fire becomes plausible. We can resurrect humanity. 

Visions of The Night

Author's Note: I am still in the process of analyzing this poem. Like all poems I write, there is always a hidden meaning behind the piece that I did not know while I was creating it. However, once each poem is finished, I feel as though, to really complete the poem, I must discover what I was unconsciously thinking at the time of composition. This particular piece was written on a Sunday night, when I realized that I actually had time to write. I miss having the time to simply write, enjoy the process, and discover my hidden thoughts. To fulfill this desire, I took the time I had on my hands and composed a piece while carefully listening to the noises coming from outside at night. There was so much, so many various emotions I could capture, yet I decided to take a more natural approach and challenge myself to just write. I wrote the piece without going back and rereading what I had; I wrote the piece without too much of a particular singular idea in mind. I am curious to know what I others thoughts are. 

Do not go out, do not go

Into the Night.

Street lamps burn, they burn and blaze

And flicker, and

Burn

The train zooms down the track

Lightening speed,

It seems.

Virtually nothing faster than that train,

As it blurs past my vision

The night sky,

The bushes, and streets,

And fields, and

Stars

Voices, sounds,

Coming from black --

Darkness, dim everywhere

It's vague

A pleasant, lovely nothingness,

Where nothing is quite certain,

Nothing quite clear, or known

The wind whispers,

Catching speed, making sound

In my ears

I am reminded,

I am not alone

I look up, light emerges

Beautiful orbs shine in deep blue clouds

Light is everywhere,

Has always been, everywhere

But to my eyes, the world is
Barely lit,

Nothing unveiled,

Too much left undiscovered,

In the Night sky, the bushes,

And streets, and fields,

And stars